Minato is a connoisseur of FINE ART, or Minato can draw
by ekourege
Summary: It's a little-known fact that Minato likes to draw. After all, it's what got him interested in sealing.


Title: Minato is a connoisseur of FINE ART, or Minato can draw.

Rating: T

Summary: It's a little-known fact that Minato likes to draw. After all, it's what got him interested in sealing.

* * *

this is a series now, oops. A series about ninja and their lesser known hobbies haha. This is a two shot, because this is so long, and the other half of this is still being worked on.

* * *

Minato was generally a well-behaved kid. He rarely threw tantrums, always tried to be polite, and usually ate his vegetables without being told. And so, the orphanage matrons grew to adore the fluffy haired child with good manners and a gap-toothed grin.

There was, however, one thing they could not get him to stop doing, no matter how many times they scolded him.

Minato had a bad habit of drawing on absolutely _everything._ The boy would doodle in crayon all over the walls, pudgy hands haphazardly defiling the plaster with colorful squiggles. Any paper he could get his hands on would be filled with weird squiggles and vaguely human figures, usually within the day of receiving the material.

The worst part of it was this: he looked _so damn proud of himself._ Each and every time he completed a "masterpiece", whether it be on his bedroom wall or carved into a table with a fork, he'd drag one of the matrons over and show it to them, ignoring the threat of punishment in favor of the potential praise, beaming and presenting it like it was his life's work.

They couldn't do more then gently remind him to not draw on things that aren't paper, because even the head matron, an old, cranky lady who managed to resist the temptation to coo and coddle the little snots when they looked up at her with large, rounded eyes, crumpled like paper in the face of that smile. He just looked _so happy_ and _excited_ that none of them had the heart to reprimand him for fear of seeing those glittering baby blues line with pearly tears and dejection.

So it continued, a cycle of headaches and inadvertent guilt-trips. Minato's desk drawer was quickly becoming stuffed chock-full with his childish doodles, from fantasy houses to "cool ninja battles" (which usually looked like stick figures standing around with oblong heads and stray crayon marks everywhere), at this point Minato had drawn it all.

The most important ones, however, were tacked to his wall using pins. There were three in total; the first, a crayon drawing of the orphanage matrons from when they'd set-up a crafting activity for those living there and he'd managed to get them to help him draw them. The smiley boy had watched, mesmerized, as they guided his stubby fingers across the paper, filling the page up with the caretakers he adored so much.

The second, drawn on a fairly small piece of paper, was his very favorite tree. He liked to sit under it while the orphanage workers taught him to read and write, it's gnarled roots and thick, droopy canopy enveloping him in shade and comfort. It was done on yellowing paper using a pencil, the lines of the trunk were bold, while the branches and leaves looked like a fluffy cloud. It even had a large branch below the leaves! Minato was very proud of it, and he liked to touch it before he went to bed, leaving it a bit smudged in places.

The third was a different matter. It was on large, stark white paper. Minato had gotten his hands on some ink and brushes, and used his favorite crayon box to color it in. It was a fairly simple drawing, depicting only three smiling figures, but it's one Minato spent the most time on, spent the whole day painstakingly creating. The first figure was that of a man, he had short, spiky brown hair and a huge grin. The block used for his body had a curved line representing a shirt, which was colored blue. On its head was a blue band, representing a crude hitai-ate, and in the brown-haired man's stick figure fist was a gray stick, a kunai.

The next figure was of a slightly shorter woman, with long blonde hair that went all the way down to her feet! Minato had thought long and hard about this, deciding that she must have had his blonde hair. On her arm was another thick blue line, a hitai-ate. Minato grinned at this, reflecting the expression both adults wore. The triangle of her body was colored light brown, with a green stripe in the middle, while her other hand was engulfed in a blue scribble - a jutsu.

In the center of these two smiling figures is a small, blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy. He's smiling wider than his companions, a black hitai-ate line proudly running across his forehead. Both adults have one hand on the blonde boy's shoulders. The circle of his body is colored in light blue - his favorite color! - and it has a cape draped over its neck.

Below the drawing, in the shaky handwriting of someone who's just learning how to use a pencil, are two words.

 _My Family_

Minato likes this one the best, despite the ink blotches from the drips he wasn't able to wipe off. He grins when he shows the matrons, who cover their faces with their hand, trying to surreptitiously wipe away the tears that had collected in the corners of their eyes. It wouldn't do to upset him, so they compliment the drawing as best they can and place it directly above the headboard of his bed.

Minato, despite the caring workers and the other orphans, is very lonely. His chest hurts when he sees the children that periodically end up adopted, giggling and joyfully chattering with their new parents.

He likes to think his own parents loved him very much, and that they were powerful ninja who died fighting an awesome battle to save the whole village. But at the end of the day… he just isn't sure.

* * *

Minato's interest in the village has been steadily increasing over the past few weeks. He's seen the matrons come and go, along with the civilian workers who bring them food and ingredients needed to make them.

Suddenly, the world Minato had concocted in his head and cemented in his drawings doesn't seem like enough anymore, the swirling vibrant colors on paper are dull and uninteresting compared to the enigmatic, glittering mystery that's outside the orphanage walls.

The blonde haired child finds himself just so _curious_ about the other side of that fence, and even books won't quench the need to see it for himself.

So, he resolves to be extra good that week, and then ask one of the matrons to take him out into the places of the village he hasn't yet seen. The parts of the village that Minato doesn't see from his very limited route through the village, where he stares and admires the same places again and again until his eyes grow tired of seeing the same stores.

* * *

The week had gone by very, _very_ slow. Minato was exhausted by the time Sunday rolled around, the week consisting of very little drawing, even when he had the ideas and the perfect places to jot them down. Instead, Minato had lots of chore work, and dedicated himself to being overly attentive during his daily lessons.

It was done now, though, and the four-year-old could ask to his heart's content. (Beg and plead is more like it, however.) In the end, it was Nao-san who caved first. He was standing by the woman with pleading eyes, hoping that this time would be the one, and his wish was then granted. The opportunity dropping into his lap and receiving a reception of much glee. She had sighed, putting one hand on her hips and ruffling his hair with the other.

"Fine, kid. Change first and then we'll go." she had said, wiping soapy hands onto her apron.

The blonde child cheered, tearing off towards his room in search of fresher clothing. He perused the dresser with care, picking out his best clothes and sandals, hastily slipping them on and smoothing out any wrinkles before speeding off to the orphanage's main door.

Minato bounced and chittered as he walked down the path, Nao smiling and nodding her head as he made his guesses as to what most of the village looked like.

It was both more and less than he expected. Buildings of all different shapes, styles, sizes, and colors were crammed together haphazardly with long winding roads separating sections. Different business and signs beckoned and called his attention in nearly all directions at once, and Minato couldn't help but marvel and excitedly swivel his head around, craning his head to be able to look at everything around him.

There were many times the matron had to guide him forward with her hand, as he'd stopped to look into a window of a shop or read the brightly colored ads scattered about, stuck to walls, poles, and windows.

What he expected were mainly the ninja. They were all over the place, running along the roofs of houses, the sides of walls, or meandering through the streets. Civilians moved out of their way as they passed, the ninja steadfast and unrelenting, unwilling to part for anyone.

He gaped at the Hokage monument, at the faces of leaders past engraved in stone for all to gaze upon.

Minato kind of wanted to be remembered like that. To be thought of and reminded of so strongly by people he knew and was never aware of alike, wanted to make a difference, put his metaphorical fingerprints on the world and shape it for the better, to lead something or someone to the future. Like Nao-san is doing with him, like his parents would have done.

Minato sighs, tightening his grip on the hand his caretaker had clasped to keep him by her side, and turns his attention back towards the road.

It was fairly wide, the gravel that had once lain there having been worn down to mere dust by the weather and passing of people, now easily displaced and kicked up by the wind or a cart rolling through. There were plenty of other things of interest on the road, though. Civilians in bright blues, purples, and yellows passed him in varying styles of clothing, they wore a wide variety of facial expressions, and unwittingly showcased minor cues that told Minato just a little about their lives and personalities.

A man with cropped, graying hair passed by him, a haggard expression on his face, and Minato watched as he limped slightly, face tensing whenever he put one foot in front of the other, casually observing the bruises that peaked out of the man's ruffled kimono.

Simultaneously, a woman in bright pink dress struts by, the jewelry she had hung on her fingers, neck, and wrists clinking and reflecting in the light. In her masterfully painted hand, is a leash that connects to the collar of a small white dog at her feet, panting and bouncing happily down the road with her.

The shinobi, on the other hand, were completely different. Some were walking directing down the center of the path, while others were speeding by on the rooftops, touching down briefly on a surface before their silhouette appeared to shiver and then phase out. They were dressed in browns, blues, and greens, and they all held different but equally impressive gaits, their footsteps nearly or completely silent, kicking up minimal amounts of dust. Some strode gracefully off to the side of the path, comfortable in the village and in the knowledge they could defend themselves, but alert all the same. Their eyes rover around the street, taking notice of exits and the surrounding people, and anything potentially lethal.

Others held movements that were aggrieved and paranoid, causing people to instinctively part for them as they walked. Their faces were in contrast to their aggressive body language, showing a wide variety of different emotions, usually negative. Some ninja looked _busy_ , wearing a determined or resigned expression as they dashed over rooftops, probably having been assigned a mission. Other ninja walked calmly and serenely down the path, radiating peace and protectiveness. Those ninja were the ones people walked the closest to.

There were ones Minato felt automatically wary of, however; the ones whose faces were blank. Their postures and strides all varied, but their faces stayed the same. Their eyes stayed glued ahead of them, not particularly looking at anything. All the while their faces lay lax and falsely pleasant, ultimately giving nothing of themselves away. People veered away sharply from these nin, picking up on the fact that they were slightly unhinged. Some looked pristine, clothes and standard wear nearly spotless, while others looked disheveled and torn. It seemed to the small blonde that they had no face, all the features were there, but it was like trying to glean happiness from a wall: it just wasn't possible.

The only similarity between all the different ninja was the hitai-ate they wore proudly, attached somewhere to their body and glinting slightly in the sunlight. Some ninja he saw had large bulky weapons with them, swords and axes, and all sorts of weapons Minato didn't recognize, while others had small weapons and short swords slung across their backs, waists, or shoulders.

Minato looked down and took in his own appearance. A hand-me-down T-shirt with a white and navy pattern on it and a pair of worn blue pants, along with a pair of black sandals - the standard wear in a ninja village. He felt oddly weak and helpless in comparison to these ninja, who had scars and rough looking hands and big weapons and pouches full of lethal tools. Compared to their honed frames and watchful eyes, Minato felt like a harmless puppy. It was a strange, and slightly distressing, feeling to acknowledge.

Then, a store catches his eye. Literally, the rusted gold-plated windows shined and caught his eye.

It was quite small, having only a single wooden door and wide display window. The paint was faded and peeling in corners, and the set-up was completed with a moderately large sign that read, "Natsuko's Supply and Ink", in red, bolded characters. Compared to its neighboring businesses; a large traditional Japanese restaurant, decked out in luxurious and classic decor, and a fairly successful carpenter's shop, with a fresh coat of paint and unique sample furniture arranged outside, it was practically a hovel.

Despite this, Minato was drawn to it. This was due to the fact that, in the window, was the most beautiful brush set the four-year-old had ever seen. It looked fancier than even the head matrons set!

He gasped and tugged on his caretakers' sleeve, pointing to the window and asking, "Can I go look? Please, Nao-san?" aiming those big, pleading baby-blues towards her, causing her simply sigh and nod. For a second, she'd wanted to deny him, hurrying along down the road. This was mostly because she wasn't sure if she could deny him anything, even if they couldn't afford it. All it'd take would be one flash of blue eyes and a pout and they'd head back to the orphanage with full hands but empty wallets.

Minato, relishing in the rare feeling of having his hand engulfed by someone else's, guided her over to the window. The short blonde stood on the tips of his toes and pressed his fingertips and face to the slightly chilled glass, breath fogging up the window.

He nearly squealed as he got a closer look at the brush set. It was packaged in a deep brown box, the inside lined with a red, expensive looking fabric. The brushes themselves looked sleek and fine, the handles intricately carved. There were six of them in total, varying in size and type, one being extremely thin, while others looked bold and thick, the bristles clumped together. Despite this, they looked perfectly clean and new. Along with it were two bottles of jet black ink and a stick of charcoal.

Minato realized at that moment that buying this set was an impossibility. The price tag on the box was labeled at 25,000 ryo. The orphanage was strapped for cash as it was, if Minato had heard the matrons hushed conversations right.

Minato knew that he could not pay for such a frivolous item.

He would just have to make do with the ones he had gotten for his assigned birthday until he was older and could make enough money doing missions to purchase his very own set. His allowance, 100 ryo a week, would never be enough to pay for it.

For a moment, he allows himself to imagine. Just for a second, while staring through the glass, Minato allows himself to pretend.

It's his parents who are behind him, chuckling at his apparent awe at the set, before walking into the store and buying it for him. He imagines holding the box close to his chest, fingers gliding over smoothly polished wood, laughing and talking with his parents as his father ruffles his hair with a large, calloused hand. His mother, he envisions, laughs loud and deep, patting his shoulder with a smaller, but equally rough hand.

He wishes it was his parents teaching how to use that set instead of the volunteers. The blonde conjures up an image of a mother who makes him a personalized lunch and threatens him with a kunai if he doesn't sit down and do his work. The boy nearly tears up at the thought of a father taking him outside of their house (and wouldn't that be nice? A house, a lawn and a family, all for himself.) and teaching him ninja tricks and how to write the characters as flawlessly as his mother does, guiding his hands and watching his progress.

A single tear escapes the corner of his eye and rolls down his cheek, his own breath hitching. His young mind takes it a step further, just to torture him with things he'll never have, and he envisions himself proudly showing off the pictures he drew to them, imagines them clapping and hugging him, before hanging them on the wall.

After all, that's where masterpieces go, right? The things that are truly of value have to go where everyone can see.

Minato figures it's not good to dwell on what won't happen, and he turns away from the brushes that seem to beckon him, draw him into the embrace of a life he'll never live: a big, painful lie. He rubs his eyes and smiles at Nao-san, calling her attention back from where she had her back facing him, eyes serene and far away. Minato steps towards her, carefully arranging himself so that he's squished against her side. She looks surprised for only a single moment, as if she didn't expect him to actually take the chance for comfort, which tells him she wasn't fooled by his attempt to cover up this sudden vulnerability, before her eyes soften and she curls a manicured hand against the nape of his neck. Minato appreciates the gesture immensely, as it loosens the knot in his chest, ceasing the burning behind his eyes and comforts him. He knows that even if he doesn't have parents, or a fancy brush set, or expensive things, he's not alone. ' _It's not so bad,'_ Minato decides. Looking up, the slightly scruffy looking child beams at her, before quickly announcing, "I'm done looking, we can go now."

Nao-san looks contemplative for a second, tapping her chin with her free hand and scanning his wavering form with sharp eyes, "Minato-kun, how about we go out for lunch? I know it's a bit early, but I have some shopping to do before that. What would you like?" she winks, grinning at him slightly.

As they walk away from that little store, Minato doesn't dare turn back, happily chatting with his guardian and keeping his head aimed firmly ahead.

* * *

Today was different.

There was an air of urgency throughout the building, the vibe settling heavy in his chest from the time he was woken up - extra early - to the time after he'd scrambled to get himself looking as best he could and finished his chores.

And he didn't even know why!

It was cleared up for Minato after breakfast, where they'd sat everyone down and gave them foods that cause as little mess as possible. The matrons were flighty, flitting about the kitchen and each indulging in one nervous habit or another, whispering about "the Hokage's oncoming visit" and fidgeting.

It was only a half hours' wait before they were called into the large room used for big celebrations, announcements, or other events. The matrons stood at the door, filing them all inside, one by one, and smoothing down ruffled hair and rumpled clothing as they shuffled by.

The room unfolded around him, and there, on the big platform, stood the Hokage. Despite his aging complexion, he was quite a regal figure, Minato noted, taking in the confident stride, upright posture, white flowing robes, and the experienced look in his eyes with poorly concealed awe. The Hokage, despite getting up there in his years, saw this and smiled wryly down at him.

Minato, who was eager to please, flashed his biggest, widest smile at the Hokage as he passed by, his face lighting up. The blonde quickly sat down in a chair, swinging his legs as he waited for everyone to get settled. Behind the Hokage stood two ninja, donning the standard jounin wear while holding a stack of papers. The Hokage took a deep breath, thereby tensing the crowd in anticipation. The sandaime then started his speech, making grand sweeping gestures with his arms. Minato simply lets the inspiring words wash over him.

Unfortunately, It does not last long. His reverie is broken as the Hokage finishes his speech, cracking a joke about children and short attention spans, which causes the adults to laugh and the kids to scowl, giggling as their false expressions twitch and quiver.

The two ninja accompanying the Hokage stepped forward with the forms in hand, announcing clearly that they were forms to sign up for the ninja academy. The enthused orphan was the first volunteer, jumping up while waving his hand. The elderly Hokage smiled at him again, and the blonde smiled back, giving him a polite "Hokage-sama." in greeting as he swept past.

He carefully grasped the flour-colored paper in his tiny hands, reverently running his fingers over the forms as he walked back to his seat, head down and devouring the text on the pages with fervor. He knew that he would have to be careful when filling out these forms, that he would have to use his best handwriting and put his utmost thought into what he wanted to fill in... but it was worth it, in the end.

Soon... he'd be a ninja! But first, he had to get out of this room. It should have been a quick in-and-out, but so many other kids were getting their forms, that it was taking so long!

* * *

In the end, very few children from the orphanage had decided to submit an application to the ninja academy. It was understandable, if a little disappointing, that he wouldn't have as many kids he was familiar with in his class. The boy pouted slightly as the thought that he would have to make new friends ran across his mind.

Most of the kids who _did_ decide to fill out the form only did it because they felt they didn't have any other option. It was known that the fate of most orphans was to either try to attain the status of a ninja, or end up working in the slums.

And sure, Minato was aware that he played into this notion because he wanted to be a ninja, but it was just so cool, and the job just seemed so _special_ and _alluring_!

A lucky few would become merchants or apprentices of trade, but that was unusual. Orphans didn't often have any particular skill set, and were usually the extras in society, ending up doing jobs like street cleaning or generalized grunt work.

It was the same for orphans who became ninja, too. There was a daunting trend of orphans ending up as career chunin, the cannon fodder and the bulk of the ninja forces. While being a chunin wasn't exactly a bad thing to Minato, he knew he wanted to attain the rank of jounin, to go higher up than what was expected of him, to become someone who was truly respected in the village.

Minato didn't want that for himself. He was resistant to any thought of getting pigeon-holed into a dead-end because of his parent-less status, of being kept a chunin despite how hard he had worked to climb the ladder, while clan children sped through the ranks.

He was avidly against becoming a merchant or an artisan, rebuking any suggestions made by other children or any of the matrons. 'Anything is better than ending up on the streets.' others, older and more bitter, would say. And while Minato, too, was fearful of such an ending, stuck to his guns and clung to the idea of being a highly-ranked jounin like a dying man to water.

He'd understood the hesitancy of the others. Life as a ninja was dangerous, unstable, and often traumatizing. He'd heard plenty of stories from Matsuko-baasan - a retired ninja with one eye. She sat them down and told them war stories, regaling dangerous missions and peppering them with warnings about the lifestyle.

It was likely the most stable financially, however, and even if he didn't want to become a ninja, he probably would have signed up for it, anyway, mostly due to the health benefits when recovering from injuries, the steady paycheck received even when not on missions, and the skill he could achieve with just a little hard work.

Yet even still, it seemed that only Minato truly wanted to become a ninja, for when he'd asked his friends and other orphans if they signed up, most told him no, while others said yes, but hesitantly, seeming disappointed in the decision.

Most who didn't know him had been quite surprised to hear of his choice, figuring that he'd wanted to become an artist or get an apprenticeship in some other artistic field, but that was not the case. Those who did know him only huffed at him exasperatedly, doing their best to hide the hint of worry in their eyes.

So, the boy had let it be. What people wanted to do with their lives was not his decision, and trying to sway them to his side would be pointless. Besides, Minato had wanted to be one anyway, with friends or without friends. He wanted so badly to wear that symbol so proudly, watch as it gathers scratches from an eventful ninja career and leave the village on missions, the boy positively ached to feel camaraderie between ninja, his daydreams filling his head with laughter and fighting together, back-to-back, and he clung to the feeling of knowing your team had your back and you had theirs, rather than the false politeness that was rampant among civilians.

Civilians, despite not being trained to be stealthy or do any jutsu, tended to be more cunning, more sneaky, and more vicious in all the ways that counted.

Civilians couldn't fight with their fists, or their chakra, because they usually did not have enough to unlock. They generally did not know how to defend themselves in a fight, so they ended up practically useless when things went wrong. Most just aren't fit for the mercenary-type military of their government, since they generally don't have any techniques or skill to fall back on.

So, they compensate.

They compensate in ways that leave wallets empty and even the most observant person swindled. Minato knows this very well, having thus experienced it just as much as he saw it happen to others, (His allowance knows this very well, and he's not sure the small coin purse will ever feel full again).

He would watch as shop owners get better at manipulating their customers, eventually being able to con even the most renowned ninja without them noticing a thing. He took note of how merchants rapidly got better at haggling and selling phony items, whilst they viciously took advantage of the arrogance and pride in Konoha nin, simultaneously squeezing every last ryo from their poor customer's wallets. They got better and better at their respective trades, intently learning the important tricks of the trade. The civilians, people who were seen as oblivious and weak, silently gained skill in bribing. In conning, stealing, and any other sort of underhanded skill.

Minato had felt a bit disconcerted when he was struck with that realization. The shinobi may protect and love the village, but by no means does that guarantee that the civilians won't take advantage of the trust in their home and in its people.

Yet, Minato loves the village and its inhabitants all the same. The boy has an innate admiration for the vendors who shout and chant about a sale they're hosting, feels his chest warm in amused affection when shuriken, kunai, and senbon come flying out from the doors of ninja bars, nearly impaling a random pedestrian walking by. (He especially enjoys when the civilian storms in with whatever sharp weapon almost hit them, and gives the ninja who threw it a tongue-lashing they'll probably never forget. He's practically in tears when the aforementioned ninja bows his head in shame, while his friends laugh from afar and the civilian storms out.) Minato loves the life that exists here, feels at home in the loud bustling crowds filled with people who come from all aspects of life.

Eventually, it prompts Minato to start bringing a pad of paper and a pencil along with him, sketching things he finds along his (not-so) secret escapades throughout the village, sketching the things he witnesses with plenty of giggles. He tries to draw a scene with a man who has ninja wire caught around his legs and is splattered with fish guts - a byproduct of a prank perpetrated by a genin who quickly jumps from his hiding place and runs away like the devil is on his heels, laughing as the man angrily shakes his fist at him. The piece actually looks pretty bad when he's done sketching it out, looking more like an obscure memory clue than what he actually saw, but Minato is proud of it. He drew it, and now that event has been saved forever.

The small blonde likes forever. He likes the beginnings of long journeys and far-off goals, likes life to go on and on and _on_ and never stop. Minato feels his chest warm at every new adventure book he reads, mourns the passing of time and all the little things that are lost in between. Minato isn't really sure why, but he feels that the past is important. So he rises early, and hates the sunset and what it means - even if it's pretty. He glares at the backs of books he's finished, of things long forgotten.

(Minato is no one, right now. He's afraid of being forgotten before he can ever really start.)

So he draws, memorializing thoughts and ideas and _people_ , most of which will be gone a mere couple of decades from now. They are, of course, poorly done. Minato's affliction is his childish hands, his poor motor control and rudimentary understanding of how the things around him work, so all his drawings come out riddled with flaws only small children can make.

And yet, he practically glows when he finishes drawing a fearless bird taunting an annoyed cat, admiring how he drew them. To Minato, it was as if he was looking at something made by a professional, and always ends up grinning happily every time a piece looks a little better than the last.

He started out drawing on one line, the foreground and background having no discernible difference. The crudely drawn cloud-tree's ending up the same height as the people drawn. Buildings were little more than squares with triangles on top, Minato having found it easier to ignore the perspective and the corners of the angular structures and focus on the people interacting in the scene. However, slowly but surely, the drawings get better. They progressively grow more dynamic, more intricate and grow in likeness to pieces an actual artist would produce, thanks to Minato practically pouncing on the art books in the orphanages' library room, tearing through book after book like a starving man being shown to a three-course dinner. The foregrounds and backgrounds start to differentiate, so no longer are dogs and trees and houses all the same size and in the same place.

The boys pencils take the hits, however, as Minato starts to develop an irksome habit of snapping his pencils in half as his frustration mounts.

Most of the villagers faces are sloppily drawn and smudged, disproportionate and cartoonish. He'd had to sketch quick, alas his subjects move on and the scene gone. Their eyes ended up crooked or their hair looked like a wig, but it was fun. He enjoyed capturing these little moments throughout the village like they were butterflies and his pen and paper was the net.

The scruffy haired child eventually spread out his scope, however, as he takes treks away from the shopping districts and veers towards the training grounds. Typically, he won't find anyone in them, as most ninja tend to practice in the training grounds a little ways out from the village for privacy, so at first he contents himself to sketching out the forgotten weapons, rusted dart boards, and other assorted training ground equipment.

Minato's favorite things to sketch happen when the ninja are there, coming in all shapes and sizes and colors, and _styles_. The blonde starts to see patterns, the fluid and graceful ways people who rely heavily on genjutsu move, the way ninjutsu users stay further away from training dummies and use more projectile weapons, how some of them use sly and sneaky movements and stances while others are heavy footed and immovable; he frantically tries to sketch his favorite parts of the smatterings of spars he bore witness to, hidden behind bushes or in trees, and squeals in awe of the big elemental jutsu he sees, lighting up the area around it like fireworks in the night sky.

But Minato is not yet a ninja. His hiding skills as they are now are poor at best, and he's painfully obvious at worst. The blonde usually ends up quickly being pulled aside by numerous ninja, hands on their hips as they scold him for being " _reckless_ " or " _endangering himself_ ". Others ignore him, flicking their eyes in his direction before pointedly leaving the training ground or moving out of his line of sight. Minato sheepishly rubs his arm and pouts when caught, before turning around his notepad and shoving it in their faces. Usually they flinch, an involuntary movement conditioned through years of harsh training and life-threatening battles. Then, their faces loosen, pinched lips and furrowed brows smoothing out before they sigh; either hauling him up by the collar and carrying him back to the orphanage, muttering curses and threatening to scold his caretakers, too, or ruffling his hair and shooing him towards the sidelines to continue watching. The ones who let him stay and watch and sketch usually halt their actual training, instead they start showing off their skills, tossing kunai and firing off their most non-chakra intensive, flashiest jutsu. A few of them, just to make sure he doesn't get to a place where he can be caught in a jutsu, put him up in a tree, telling him it's safer and that he'll have a better view of them while they practice.

He's only been left in those trees twice, and only the first was malicious. That ninja had a fake smile, was rigid and rough with him and he'd hauled him up by his armpits and put him in that tree. The branches were all high up in that tree, with barely any branches toward the bottom which he could use to climb down, effectively trapping him up there, leaving him at the mercy of the ninja who'd sat him there and to the elements. The ninja had resumed his training, for a short while, but he frequently ran out of his line of sight, so anything he was drawing at the time got cut off. Soon, however, that ninja - with dark, blank eyes and ruffled brown hair - had gracefully packed up his tools and left the grounds, ignoring him, even as Minato used his _outside voice_ to call for him, thus leaving him stranded.

It wasn't all bad though, a squirrel was sat on the edge of the branch with him, fluffy tail twitching as it leaned forward to sniff at him, before scuttering up onto his leg, which meant even though he was alone, he wasn't _really_ alone.

The other, though, had clearly just forgotten about him because he was training so hard. Minato had filled five pages with doodles about this hard working man and how hard he was practicing with a scythe and chain, waving it around and trying to gain more mobility with it. Minato had actually winced a couple of times during the particularly grueling training and wasn't all that surprised when the man stumbled off the training grounds late into the evening without even sending a glance his way. Minato has always been quiet, so he's not mad when he has to devise a way to get down by himself. (He figures the nin probably wouldn't have been able to get him down anyway, what with how tired he looked.)

Even though he eventually resigns himself to taking a daring leap and hoping for the best, the six-year-old considers it a win. That is, until his leg bends wrong and he collapses to the ground, letting out a strangled cry. Minato's cheer dissolves a bit at that, and he grunts before hauling himself up, using a tree trump for support. The blonde boy tries to hop home on one leg and needless to say, it doesn't work.

People look at him funny as he stumbles down the streets, using poles and walls for support, but otherwise pay him no mind. It takes him nearly an hour to get back to the orphanage, and when he practically falls into the door, the matrons gently admonish him and scramble to get something to ice the sprain with.

* * *

As Minato sits in his room with his leg tightly bandaged, he figures he should get back to finishing his academy application.

The blonde had actually filled most of it out the night after he'd gotten the form. Minato had panicked the night he'd received it, worried about jumping the gun and making stupid mistakes that could keep him from becoming a ninja. So, when he finally sat down to fill it out, brush and inkwell in hand, the boy was nearly quaking in excitement.

Minato combed through it carefully, read the fine print with a calculating eye, (and a slightly terrified one, who knew being a ninja was so dangerous! There we so many things listed that could go wrong it nearly made his stomach hurt.) before dipping his brush in the ink and putting it to paper. He'd carefully filled out his first name, what they marked as his birthday since they didn't know his actual one, and any other information he could fill out by himself. Minato would have to ask the matrons to help him out with the money stuff, but from the looks of it, academy students were offered an apartment when they hit their second to last year, along with a stipend of 5,000 ryo. The blonde was a bit saddened at the prospect of not being with the matrons and the other kids he grew up around, but was greatly enthused by the thought of any sort of independence, and checks off the option. He promises he'll visit frequently when the time for him to move out comes along, and he has four years until that happens, anyway.

The only thing left to finish filling out is the very first box: his name. On paper, his name is just "Minato." He has no last name and most of his other basic information was placeholder guess-work, that being because he was found in an alley near the red-light district. There was no note, no identification, no indication of where he was from or who his parents were. There was only him, sleeping and wrapped in a thin grey blanket.

It's not like he was the only one in this situation, though. Far from it, in fact. Most orphans who lived in Konoha were the same, their entire identities made up by random government officials and office-nin, quickly and quietly decided on and given to the orphanage's staff. Rare was the kid who entered the orphanage with an already concrete identity around them. Most academy students who were in this situation put down their last name down as "Konoha", likely because it was the orphanage's name and the easiest thing to think of, but Minato was against this. The boy had big dreams and an even bigger heart, one that bled for recognition and a solid knowledge of his own person. The blonde could never _ever_ take that last name, put "Konoha" down on paper and make it final, because a name is something you hold for life, and Minato doesn't want to be equated with the words "poor orphan" or "lost soul".

So, he pondered alternatives. This mostly consisted of him pacing around the building, trying to think of a name for himself and annoying his housemates and caretakers alike with his muttering and frustrated rambling. After realizing that wouldn't work, Minato thought that maybe an outside suggestion might help, and proceeded to ask some of his friends for good names while playing tag, mostly being given names that sounded "cool" or were from those childish heroes all of them seemed to like.

One of those children had even told him to write down his very own last name!

Minato knew that they'd be no help upon hearing that, and immediately looked towards the orphanage staff for suggestions of slightly better quality. He'd gone up Katsumi-san, who was tidying up after some of the others who'd came tumbling in, covered in mud, and tugged lightly on her sleeve. She blinked down at him, not expecting the typically independent and grounded kid to try to get her attention with such a childishly downtrodden expression and an equally childish movement, and her long copper hair slipped from behind her shoulders and dangled, tickling his nose. The blonde boy explained the situation to her, expecting and hoping for help. Instead, she scooped him up and sat him down at a nearby table, quickly getting herself and Minato something to drink (Tea and hot cocoa, respectively.) before launching into a full out heart-to-heart lecture mode. Attempting to convince him that any name he chose would be a good one, and that no one would judge him for it - that even taking the last name of the orphanage was something to take pride in.

It went nowhere, in the end. Minato thanked her for the hot cocoa, and quietly decided to look somewhere else. That night, he'd thought about using the last name of one of the matrons.

...It's not like they would mind, right?

Minato had to take a moment and shake his head, clearing away the desperation that was clearly developing. Needless to say - the idea was vetoed.

Finally, Minato tried to make a list of his favorite names and choose one, finding it a more sensible option than what he'd done previously. Until, that is, he'd sat in front of a blank piece of paper for an hour and a half, managing to break two pencils and think of exactly zero names. Something in him _ached_ to find something that fit, an identity he could proudly wear for the rest of his life, something that made him _Minato_ instead of _Minato the Orphan_. However, as the deadline for academy form submissions drew near, he knew he might have to let go and put down the orphanages name, that he might have to make that sacrifice, because for all that being a good ninja is having a good name, it wouldn't matter if he couldn't become one in the first place.

After all, it's all he's ever wanted to do with his life. And Minato, being six and an idealist, had never before thought about a last name, it having never occurred to him that he may need one.

Minato made a frustrated noise, gripping his pencil tightly in his hand and wracking his brain for any other ideas as to where he might get a name from. He restlessly paced (Read: limped) around his room. During this, he once again stood wrong on his sprained ankle, and lurched to the side, hissing. He heard a thump and he looked down to the floor, where a book lay on the floor, having been dislodged from its precarious position up on the bookcase.

Then, an idea struck him. His eyes widened and Minato spun around, cheering "Of course! The library, I'm sure they'll have at least _something_ there!"

He takes a step forward, as if to rush over to the library right that minute, and then winces as sharp sting sends a wave of pain up his leg. Minato frowns, his eyebrows knitting together, and Minato hobbles over to his bed and flops down onto it, roving his eyes carefully around the room. His eyes lock on a thick wooden stick, leaning against the wall in the corner. The boy had found it in the forest surrounding the yard, swinging it around a little bit before claiming it as his weapon against evil foes.

Minato later got in trouble for whapping an older boy on the head with it. Even so, Minato felt justified in his actions against the older boy. He had had deserved it, and Minato reckons that anyone who tries to take the toys of a five-year-old when they're almost in the double digits deserves a good whack to the head.

Stretching forward, Minato strains towards the stick, reaching out with his left hand while using the right to take weight off of his injured leg. His body contorts as he tries with all his might to stretch his fingertips out as far as they can go. Minato paws at the air, hands beginning to sweat with the death grip he's keeping on the desk. Just as Minato's finger tips touch the end of the stick, barely grazing it enough to feel the rough texture, his now sweaty hand slips from the wooden table and he topples forward onto the floor heavily. The stick wobbles, and with finality, falls directly on top of Minato, who wheezes. His tiny hand reaches out to grab at the stick on top of him, rolling himself over. Then, Minato very carefully crawls up onto bed, trying to keep as much pressure off his foot as possible.

Having righted himself, he uses the stick to support his weight, and picks himself up from his seated position, pulling up his sprained leg so he doesn't put more pressure on it.

Minato grins at his success, limping over to the door before flinging it open and proceeding down the hallway. Two of his caretakers try to stop him, but Minato is not to be deterred. The blonde boy looks up at them, batting his wide blue eyes, and tells them he just wants to go stretch his legs in the grounds out front.

They agree, of course. Minato mentally apologizes for lying to them, and continues on his way. He carefully pulls on his sandals, flinching as his bandaged ankle twinges at the contact, and hauls open the big wooden doors. He scrambles down stone steps, hopping down the stairs and catching his balance using his new walking stick, slowly making his way towards the Konoha Public Library.

* * *

The building itself doesn't look like anything much from the outside. It's styled like any other building on that particular road; it has no fancy sign, no flashy adverts strewn about the wall or on any other conceivable surface, and its simple and mundane sign reads "Konoha Public Library" in a humble font.

However, that's as far as the normalcy goes.

Because Konoha is not just a run-of-the-mill village, like the ones where the main source of income is trading or agriculture. No, for Konoha is run by ninja, and it is the very first of its kind, and the very strongest. And just like its people, the structures erected were also made to deceive.

The steps are a dull marble, and one hasn't an inkling as to what they're walking into when they first approach the building, with the front being disguised in the typical browns of the village.

Then, suddenly, as they enter and the corridor gives way to long, arching bookshelves, it's like walking into a completely different dimension from the one outside. Ultimately leaving one wondering how they ever could have thought this building was unimportant. The shelves crawled up the walls, filled with anything and everything imaginable. The contents of each shelf were crammed together, with scrolls stacked next to large tomes and ornately leather-bound books, each shelf containing books bound in all sorts of colors and sizes.

The building itself had two floors, with a large wooden staircase curving delicately up, leading to the floor above where historical documents, harmless jutsu, and records were located. Minato pants and leans heavily on his stick, his sprained leg quivering. The boy carefully climbs the steps, gripping the railing firmly.

On the second floor, the books are thicker and more technical, covers old and worn, detailed in a way Minato has yet to comprehend. The sections are meticulously labeled by genre, and Minato determinedly surveys the room, brightening when he finds the section he's looking for.

" _Public Records"_ it says in neat, black script.

Minato hobbles towards the section as quick as he can while injured, and begins perusing the worn shelving and old books, absently running his fingers across the dusty boards. Titles flicker by, each book varying in size and color, each book in different states of age but all equally as dusty.

He stops by a section of large, thick red books. He runs his finger over the titles, stopping at random on one titled in solemn font, " _Civilian Death Records. Issue: 14. (xxxx-xxxx)_ ". There's no author listed, as it's obviously a government-issued book, and Minato very carefully pulls it from its place between issues 13 and 15, taking note of the smooth, leathery material the cover is made of.

It's heavier than anticipated, and it strains Minato's free arm. The blond boy let's out a small grunt, wincing as he jerkily steps towards one of the tables and heaves it up over the wood, dropping it clumsily onto the table with a heavy " _thump_ ", the sound of it causing Minato to cringe and look around, wary and expecting an adult to pop out and scold him.

Settling his walking stick against the table, Minato carefully pulls out a chair and nearly falls into it, grunting in relief. The blond boy sighs and gently prods at his ankle, wincing when it hurts more than it did before he'd run off. Minato frowns at his leg but turns back towards the book lying on the table. Minato takes hold of the thick cover and flips it open.

He scans the pages and the labeled information, skipping past the sections for the civilian clans and browsing the ones for people that weren't from any sort of clan at all. Minato sniffles, sinuses slightly inflamed from all the dust and absently rubs his eyes, running his finger over the rows and rows names before stopping at one.

' _Namikaze'_ it's labeled.

It takes his takes his breath away. Minato has examined his first name thoroughly, analyzing the kanji and all of its potential meanings with assistance from the matrons, his first name is everything he is, it's the first thing a person will know about him, and everything about Minato is centered around that word.

Namikaze just… clicks, somehow. Something about it just sounds _right_ when said in conjunction with his name.

Minato stares down at the name, tapping at the kanji for a moment and thanking the man who'd held the name previously.

' _Minato… Namikaze, huh?'_

* * *

Minato sits at his desk, Ninja Academy forms splayed out in front of him. He feels exhausted and his leg throbs painfully, but he can't bring himself to really care. It was all worth it, and in the end, he's finally content.

The boy neatly stacks the forms in the order they came in, and breaks out his pen and inkwell. He brings it down on the dotted line designated for his name and writes in carefully worded lettering: _Namikaze._ It fits seamlessly into his identity, as if it was always meant to be there.

Minato gives a long, satisfied exhale, and tucks the forms into the small folder designated for them. He then carefully climbs into his bed, wincing with every movement.

He falls asleep with a peaceful smile on his face, despite the agitated state of his leg.


End file.
